


I Dedicate This Song

by nhpw



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Belts, Bottom Misha, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Polyamory, Post-Coital Cuddling, Spanking, Top Jensen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-23 05:32:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6106471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nhpw/pseuds/nhpw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The spankings that leave bruises - reminders that last for days - are the best ones by far.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Dedicate This Song

**Author's Note:**

> Set JaxCon 2016 - Saturday evening, between Misha's panel and Saturday Night Special, at which Jensen sang (fantastically) "Whipping Post." 
> 
> Unbeta'd; mistakes are mine. TOTALLY a PWP.

It’s not that Misha minds topping. It’s not his favorite, but he does consider himself a switch and as such will take the lead if it’s something his partner needs.

His favorite, though? His favorite is when Jensen goes Full Dominant. All hard lines and rough grabs and pulls and harsh kisses. It had taken years for Jensen to feel comfortable unleashing the beast, but Misha had seen the potential the first time they’d locked eyes. Way before they were lovers. Way before the first touches, which were hilariously fumbling and unsure.

There’s no trace of that now.

Jensen’s innocence had been fun, and their first encounters remarkably playful -  _ “You’re like a couple of greyhound puppies,” _ he remembers Vicki observing - but for Misha, it doesn’t hold a candle to the confident lover that Jensen has become. 

Confidence and command in any lover, gender aside, makes Misha weak in the knees. When it’s Jensen, he goes from “weak in the knees” to “hard as a rock” in the heartbeat of the first possessive growl. There’s nothing on Earth so intoxicating as the feel and smell and sound of Jensen Ackles invading his personal space, pushing him up against a wall or throwing down on a bed and making bold advances and growling commands without reservations.

And so in Jacksonville, when Jensen follows Misha into his hotel room on Saturday evening with purposeful strides and meticulously deadbolts the door before slamming Misha up against the wall, he raises no objection. He gives a smothered, “Mmmmfff,” of surprise before relaxing into the kiss, which feels as though Jensen’s on a spelunking mission to find his tonsils, but fuck. That’s hot. And then Jensen takes Misha’s hands and pins them to the wall above his head and that’s it. Misha’s gone. He melts into Jensen, surrendering to the younger man’s welcome assault.

“You’ve been drinking without me,” Jensen mumbles into his mouth when he has to come up for air.

“Bourbon in the green room. Blame Rich.”

“Before or after?”

“Before.”

Jensen pulls back but keeps Misha’s hands pinned. “You drank before your panel?”

_ Shit. _

It’s not against Creation’s rules, but Jensen despises it and has asked Misha, in no uncertain terms, to never, ever,  _ ever _ do that because  _ that’s how we get in trouble. You let your guard down and you  _ say things _ , Mish. You do things. You volunteer information you shouldn’t. The last thing we need is for you to get loose-lipped about what we really are. _

His eyes catch just a glimpse of the fire in Jensen’s gaze before dropping to the floor. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth but gives no verbal response; it’s hard to come up with one when all he can focus on is the ache in his groin and Jensen’s gut-deep growl of disapproval.

A few beats of still silence and Jensen drops his hands and turns away. Misha slowly straightens his spine but remains against the wall, eyes on his lover’s back. He watches as Jensen’s right hand comes up to cup his chin and can tell from the slight movement that the other man is running his hand over his chin. Thinking. Calculating. Finally he says without turning around, “Take your pants off.”

And there’s no good verbal response to that. “I…”

“Actually, take everything off. Then get on all fours on the bed.” There’s nothing more. No affection, no anger, no movement, nothing. Just a directive, and then silence, waiting for compliance.

It’s hot as fuck, and Misha doesn’t need to be told twice.

He tries not to appear too eager as he moves to obey, and ends up stripping methodically, folding each piece of clothing into a neat pile on the hotel side table before complying with the positioning request.

“So. You  _ do _ know how to follow instructions when your ass is on the line.” 

Misha remains silent and doesn’t look up, but he can hear Jensen’s footsteps as he pads across the room, and then the unmistakable  _ clink _ and  _ swish _ of a buckle being opened and belt removed.

He’s mentally prepared for an angry fuck, so the first slap of Jensen’s belt across his left ass cheek makes him cry out in pain and surprise.

The next four slaps come fast and heavy - _ left, right, left, right _ \- and Misha cries out with each one.

There’s a beat and then it’s cutting and heavy - Jensen has folded the belt in half.

“Je--Jen--”

“No, you don’t get to talk. You talked plenty on stage.”  _ Slap _ with the single strap again.

“I’m-- just let me--”

There are three more slaps with the belt - right, left, right - and then Jensen grabs Misha by the hair and tilts his head up. “Look at me.  _ Look _ at me, you little slut.”

There are tears sliding down his cheeks, but he looks up and there’s Jensen’s face just an inch from his. When their eyes lock, Jensen captures Misha’s lips in a crushing kiss, holding it until Misha’s whimpering for breath.

When he finally releases the kiss, Misha whispers, “I’m sorry,” because it seems the best thing to say right now, for all parties concerned, and for their relationship. 

“I know.” There’s a tiny smile on Jensen’s face; the barest sign of forgiveness. Then he imparts another kiss - still possessive, but gentle, ending in a tiny nip at Misha’s lips. “Brace yourself,” he breathes, and their eyes meet again briefly before Jensen steps back.

He brings his hand next. It’s reverse order from the spanking Misha’s used to; they don’t have their toy bag so the flogger hadn’t been used for warmup but generally it’s the hand before the strap, not the other way around. That brings the blood vessels to the surface, increases sensation so that by the end of a proper spanking Misha is a fucking mess. 

This is a blessing, this reversal, because in comparison to the cold, impersonal feel of the belt, Jensen’s hand is soft and molding and intimate, caressing between slaps. Soon his cries of anguish turn to moans, and then Jensen’s caressing longer and more carefully, with fingertips over Misha’s red-hot skin. It’s almost reverent, Misha thinks through his brain-fog. Like he’s admiring his own handiwork.

“I love this,” Jensen finally breathes, and indeed, he sounds fascinated. The next thing Misha feels is the cool press of Jensen’s lips to his burning skin, and he lets out a needy whimper. “Hmmmm… the coloring is amazing. You’ll bruise, I think.”

“Good.” The spankings that leave bruises - reminders that last for days - are the best ones by far.

“Thank God it’s just ops for you tomorrow though, huh? Not much sitting?” Jensen has leaned in to study the color and grouping more closely, and to place a purposeful line of kisses just left of Misha’s ass crack.

“ _ Jen _ …”

“Mmmmm… shut up.” More kisses, and swipes of his tongue. The sensation walks the line of pleasure and pain so thinly that Misha’s not sure which one has his brain in a frenzy at the moment.

The beautiful agony of lips and tongue on his skin continues until he’s anything but quiet, but the sounds coming out of him aren’t words in any language. Then, finally, blissfully, he hears the unmistakable rustle of clothing being pushed down, followed by the slicking of lube over skin. It’s fingers first, but Jensen’s quick and efficient about that, clearly not in the mood to play gently. And then it’s the bluntness of a cockhead and Misha lets out a strangled, “Ohhhh…” which earns him a dark chuckle as Jensen lines up and pushes inside.

He fucks with abandon, but his fingertips play over Misha’s still-burning ass cheeks the whole time. It’s pleasure. It’s pain. It’s sweet fullness and agony and want. Misha attempts to reach down for his own aching erection, only to have his hand swatted away, followed by a hard, stinging spank across his ass that has the tears threatening again. “No. This isn’t for you. This is for me.”

Misha just groans and bows his head, giving a conciliatory nod. Then Jensen grips his hips with bruising force and starts rutting, hard and fast, slamming against Misha’s prostate with each thrust. But he stills before the sensation is enough to make Misha cum untouched and pulls out, shouting in completion and shooting his load onto Misha’s tenderized skin.

In the stillness that follows, Misha can hear Jensen taking a few deep breaths, and then padding to the bathroom and back. A wet towel swipes gently over his ass but it’s still painful, and Misha cries out at the touch.

Jensen chuckles softly and leans forward to kiss Misha’s cheek and ruffle his hair. “I like making a mess of you,” he rumbles into Misha’s ear before giving a playful nip to the lobe.

“You’re so good at it.”

“Because you’re a slut for me and you know it.” He’s still chuckling under his breath as he comes up onto the bed and curls up on his side. 

“Secret’s out,” Misha whispers in reply. He mirrors the pose to stare into his lover’s eyes, and gets lost in there; Jensen’s faraway expression says he’s doing the same.

“You gonna be OK?” Jensen’s eyes flit briefly to Misha’s erection, still prevalent but admittedly softening as the adrenaline leaves his body.

“Yeah. Did you pack the cream?”

“‘Course. Front pocket of my duffle. I’ll leave you my key.”

“Singing tonight?”

“I’ve got 20 minutes or so.” He scoots himself toward Misha and takes him into a gentle embrace, pressing an endearing kiss to his forehead.

“What song?”

“Hmmm?”

“Tonight.” Misha cuddles his head even closer and closes his eyes as Jensen’s fingers begin a gentle coming through his hair. He involuntarily lets out a yawn. “What are you singing?”

Jensen’s fingers still, and he chuckles from his gut, and then kisses Misha’s temple before whispering in his ear. “You should throw on a disguise and come down.”

“Oh?”

“I was thinking I should dedicate it to you, actually.”

Misha’s eyes stay closed, but a smile plays across his lips. “ _ Angel Eyes _ ?”

The reply rides in on another chuckle, deeper and darker than the first, and Misha has to open his eyes just to catch the mischievous glint in his lover’s eyes. “No.” A cursory kiss and nuzzle to Misha’s forehead before their eyes meet again for the reply. “The Allman Brothers. Little ditty… called  _ Whipping Post _ .”


End file.
